Gonzalo and His Mom at Oak Creek, July 2003
So...Gonzalo read the posting of this morning and shared a little story I didn't remember (or didn't know about), that says a lot about who this woman Amelia was.
The surgeon instructed us not to tell Amelia the diagnosis, and that the tumor was inoperable; he wanted to buy some time for her to recover from the sedative and from the pain of the operation itself, before she had to deal with bad news. He also told us that, sadly, he had had a good deal of experience in telling people this kind of news, and so felt more comfortable, perhaps, doing this than we might. We agreed.
Or so I thought. The nurses had already taken Amelia into her room to regain consciousness, finding a private room instead of the shared one she had had--a very sweet gesture on their part, which proved to be vital to Amelia's health, of which more in a later chapter. Anyway, she began to come out of her sleep and Gonzalo was next to her. Speaking softly, still drowsy, she asked him what the doctors had found, what the diagnosis was. He felt he had to say something, so he did.
Now, one of Amelia's good friends was an instructor in sign language. Amelia knew a couple of deaf students at her school and so she asked this friend to show her some basic signs, and also some that would get a laugh--you know, so she could surprise the students and make them feel like they had another friend. Among these signs is one in which the "speaker" holds out one forearm, angled upward and with the thumb and index finger of the hand extended and all the other fingers curled, and then places the other hand at the elbow and moves the fingers of that hand in a rapid opening/closing motion.
After Gonzalo gave her the news, Amelia, still too sleepy to speak much, made this sign. Gonzalo, turning to his brother Husayn, asked "What does that mean?"
"Bullshit," replied Husayn.
Even before the drugs wore off she began her fight for life, giving us sweet laughter as her very first gift.
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